her with my whole soul--she will be the one love of my life time. I shall
never love another woman as I loved her. But if my name, and the position
I can give my wife, will be pleasant to you, then I ask you to accept
them, as some slight recompense for what I have made you suffer. If you
can be satisfied with the sincere respect and friendship I feel for you,
then I offer myself to you. You deserve my heart, but I have none to
give to any one. I have buried it so deep that it will never know a
resurrection."

She shuddered and grew pale. To one of her passionate nature--loving him
as she did--it was but a sorry wooing. His love she could never have. But
if she married him, she should be always near him; sometimes he would
hold her hands in his, and call her, as he did now, Alexandrine. Her
apparent struggle with herself pained him. Perhaps he guessed something
of its cause. He put his arm around her waist.

"My child," he said, kindly, "do you love me? Do you indeed care for me?
Cold and indifferent as I have been? Tell me truly, Alexandrine?"

She did tell him truly; something within urged her to let him see her
heart as it was. For a moment she put aside all her pride.

"I do love you," she said, "God only knows how dearly!"

He looked at her with gentle, pitying eyes, but he did not touch the red
lips so near his own. He could not be a hypocrite.

"I will be good to you, Alexandrine. God helping me, you shall never have
cause for complaint. I will make your life as happy as I can. I will give
you all that my life's shipwreck spared me. Will that content you? Will